


la petite mort

by phadedphoque



Series: rick and morty don’t have sex (until they do) [4]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Age Difference, Bloodplay, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Incest, Kidnapping, Knifeplay, M/M, Necrophilia, PWP, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:55:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22658158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phadedphoque/pseuds/phadedphoque
Summary: Knife play prompt for febs challenge! There is a clear break before the necro so read at your own discretion! A good friend inspired me to make this one darker— r&m is too dramatic for me not to make my own work angstier haha! Hope you enjoy!
Relationships: Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith
Series: rick and morty don’t have sex (until they do) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602316
Comments: 20
Kudos: 37





	la petite mort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GhostyGooGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostyGooGirl/gifts).



Morty doesn’t know where he is. Actually, if he’s being honest with himself, he rarely does. This time, however, he hasn’t even been afforded the privilege of guessing. He presumes he’s been kidnapped due to the bag over his head. To make matters worse, he’s only got the socks on his feet and the underwear covering his ass to work with. 

He can’t move, feels cold metal cutting at his wrists and his legs: handcuffs, he reckons. He pulls against them, hoping they’ll break, hoping it isn’t happening, hoping this is all some horrible mistake. Of course, it’s never that easy anymore, and nothing except the entirety of the universe is a mistake. 

He can tell he’s sitting but he definitely can’t stand up. 

His initial panic has helped him assess that there’s enough wiggle room to squirm and maybe find a way out of this. He tries to remember anything, anything all about what Rick’s taught him. Hours clocked learning tricks only to be forgotten when they’re really needed. He screams for help but it’s muffled by whatever’s blocking his vision, figures whoever’s put him here probably accounted for that and that there’s no point in wasting his breath.

A rare wave of confidence takes him, probably adrenaline fueled hubris. Then he’s pulling, yanking against his restraints, his arms taut to their limit while he’s flailing about. He hopes by some miracle he’ll acquire the type of strength a mother has when her baby’s trapped under a car with no such luck. Nonetheless, his hyperventilating lessens, he hadn’t even realized he was breathing  _ so hard _ but now he does and he’s trying to stop it. He reminds himself that the first step to controlling the situation is to control himself, trying not to relive any of the pain he’s gone through multitudes of times before.

_ Focus, focus now, _ he self-soothes.  _ Really think about what’s going on.  _

He flexes his eye sockets, stretches them as wide open as they can go. He can just barely make out shapes from underneath it, the bright light being pointed at him making it a bit easier, at least can’t see his captor waiting in the wings. His blindness solidifies the situation: reality hits him like a sack of bricks.

_ Oh god oh god oh god— _

And just as quickly as his confidence had onset its left him, the air replaced with new sounds emerging from his shadowy environment. The mechanical whirr of parts moving begins, and he hears the high pitch tone of a screen turning on.

“A-a-a-alright,  _ Mooooorty _ , we’re, we’re gonna play uh-a little  _ gaaaaame _ .” A metronome tone begins it’s repetitive procussion. 

“R-r-r- _ rick?” _ Morty questions, as if there could be someone else doing this to him.

“T-th-this is some, some real ‘ _ welcome to my, to my twisted mind’ _ shit, - _ uuuurp-  _ but it’s for your, for yer own good”. 

Morty fumes, betrayed and livid, but not for long: Rick’s spheal continues.

“You get, get a, uh, sixty sex, seconds he- _ euugh-ad _ start”, his speech pauses and Morty hears retching, followed by Rick groaning in disgust. 

“Oough,, ugh. Well, uh... Clocks, uh-- clocks-a-ticking”. 

The whirring starts again and hears the screen click back from whence it came but the echo of the metronome remains, a reminder of what little time he has left, he counts the grains of sand that runs through his bound hands. 

Morty’s mind jumps to the morbid: Rick must expect him to have the willpower to mutilate himself to get out of something like this, wonders about how hard it would be to break his own thumbs. (It’s a skill he’d later learn, but not after too many let-downs on Rick’s behalf, left to take matters into his own crippled hands). He's still young and soft at this point in their relationship, not jaded by horrible tricks such as these, still afraid of his mortality. Instead he tugs and tugs and tugs fruitlessly, feels the bruises turn to blisters turn to welts on his wrists. He tries everything he can think of, short of sawing off a limb (so not much): the minute too short but much too long, the every tick and tock solidifying and reminding him of his failure. 

And then before he knows it, the sound stops—  _ no, it’s too soon, it can’t be-- _ he pleads.  _ Just a bit more time, he can figure it out. _ He’s fleeing and feral and feisty in the silent seconds of insecurity, instinctually trying to preserve himself but without the limbs to do it, his body curls in on itself to no avail. 

It’s the waiting and waiting of silence, the time so finite but forever, he doesn’t know what’s going to happen next but he knows it’s going to happen soon, but just  _ how soon-- _

The swish of a portal and the groan of a man who is going to be  _ very _ hungover tomorrow cuts through the sound of Morty’s heavy breath. His heart races with the idea of his potential punishment for failing to escape. 

“Ugh, oy vey—“

Rick must be smashed because there’s clattering everywhere, his drunken motions are too erratic for Morty to read, much too chaotic. The suspense is too much for him and he wants to pass out, tries to will himself unconscious. He attempts a second bolstering of his confidence to brave the inevitable. 

_ You can do this you can do this—  _

“What, what is this— why are you—“

Before his brave intentions can manifest into anything useful he feels PAIN, intense, fire hot  _ pain _ in his thigh, searing flame radiates from the one spot across his flank. Rick had actually tripped and managed to stab him, doing more damage from his drunkenness than from his intended terror.

The knife juts out from his leg, every millimeter of Rick’s wiggling like a mile gouged in his skin, Morty’s almost certain it’s nicked his bone and he’s screaming so loudly his throat burns, feels the dull thud of the reverberation of his crying smack against against the walls of his windpipe.

Bull-like he huffs out, trying to hold himself together, his throat so dry and breaking. He hears Rick pick himself up and manage to drag a seat over to him, senses him at body level. His brain is bright blinding white with fear, he has no idea what to do, what fate will befall him.

Rick yanks the knife out of his leg without warning. A hoarse scream escapes his grasp as the serrated edges take more of his skin on their way out. 

“You gotta tell me the truth  _ Mooorty _ ”

He feels the sliver of the knife on his overstretched muscle of his armpits uncomfortably twisted. He thinks about his skin splitting, seen it split enough before to know what it reminds him of: bacon cut on a Sunday morning. Sometimes Rick is generous enough to make him breakfast. Other times he’s not. He’s familiar with what it’s like to cut a tendon, happened only a few weeks ago, the searing pain of the muscle snapping in two, elastic like a rubber band gun backfired. He hopes Rick spares the ones in his shoulder. 

“W-w-w-what?-- I-- I don’t--”

He has no idea what Rick’s on about, doesn’t know what truth he’s referring to. just as his mind begins to crank through what he’s referring to, what to do to get out of this, a needle prick from the offending member bursts his thought bubble. 

He’d tell Rick any truth he wanted to get out of this right now, terror exacerbated by the moment. He racks his brain for any answers, anything he might have done or didn’t do. He knows any and all little grudges aren’t off the table.

Through gritted teeth he inquires: “w-w- _ what _ truth?--”

Locks his jaw and braces for impact, unsure of where Rick will attack next. He really doesn’t know what the truth refers to, doesn’t want to know, wouldn’t dare bite the apple. He loves the way things are now (mostly), doesn’t want them to ever change. ‘Rick and Morty 100 years’ is more pact than promise at this point: a relationship created by shared blood but solidified by blood spilled. There aren’t any names for what they are, grandfather and grandson doesn’t translate well, nor does it describe the depth of their connection. A parasitic partnership built on symbiotic premises. How can there be a truth to tell when their reality is so hard to define?

The icicle of the blade is his sternum now, right between his pathetic excuse for pectoral muscles, and it pokes him, a sharp prick. He feels blood leak out of it and down his chest, pooling in the cave of his bellybutton. The poke increases in pressure and a splitting sensation travels upwards, he feels his skin part like the Red Sea, imagines the blood flowing from it like the waves and he’s petrified, he can’t breathe. It makes a line over the convex of his neck to the base of his chin and feels more droplets leave his body with exceeding pace. 

And it’s moving, moving, uncomfortably near, much too close at his throat for comfort. It leaves the trail of his neck with a bit of relief but it’s not long before it’s back on his skin that he figures out where it’s headed next. And yet, despite his terror, he feels his nipples perk up at the cold tip of the knife. 

He skims through the database of his brain, thinks up all the things he might’ve done to upset Rick, a condensed confessional, finding guilt for things he shouldn’t be sorry for just to finally get this over with.

It traces down the soft part of his arm, super sharp. 

His squirming only makes it worse, tickling and twitching and cutting himself on a knife. 

He pulls against his restraints trying to get lose, thinks about the time Rick cut his own hand off, the former looking more and more promising than this interrogation mind fuck. He  _ must _ be testing him, waiting for morty to prove himself, to see if he’s got the nerve. Lord knows he doesn’t. 

“Please— I don’t know—“

Another blow of his knife lands, this time in his other thigh. 

“Is this a-about that time I-i tripped on—“

He grinds his teeth together and bites his tongue as rick continues to slash him relentlessly, the knife sharp but still dull enough to feel and getting duller between cuts

“I’m sorry I-i-i… drank from your flask without asking—?”

And still the stabbing doesn’t resent. 

“I’m sorry! I-I’m sorry!”

He chants the pair of words because they’re the only thing he can think to say, he’s exhausted all other options. He’s sorry for whatever he’s done, sorry he’s here right now.

He can’t see the damage but he knows it’s bad, like really bad. He stabs him just left of center and instead of listening for the pop as the knife comes back out he hears instead the horrible gristly noise of his skin tearing. The blade goes in and wrenches downward, tracing through the maze of his organs. 

“ _ Oof _ ” escapes him, not that he can even breathe anymore. It’s a measly sound, mostly just a vehicle for his soul to leave his own body.

He coughs and feels something warm and wet at his lips. He coughs again and this time tastes the acrid acid of bile on his tongue. Then he’s gagging, vomiting the little food he has in his stomach out onto his bare and bloodied chest.

“I’m sorry I, I’m not good, sorry I love—“

He blurts something out he really regrets, his memory of this time is fuzzy like it often is when he knows he’s met his match. However, the chaos in their lifestyle rarely gives them a moment to reflect on these sorts of outbursts, they manifest as nervous habits and memories he’ll bring to his casket. He prefers it this way, just like how loud noises block out his tinnitus. 

He can’t remember what he’s said for sure, but he  _ does  _ know he gets stabbed again, this time in the side. He can’t remember quite how it felt, how much damage it did. He still has the scar from it, if he pushes on it he can just barely recall the sensation. He hoped to god it wasn’t anything vitally important (later, he’d learn it was) 

He doesn’t know what to say to make it stop, can’t procure the magic words: he resigns to his fate. He knows he’s losing a lot of blood and that things are starting to get blurrier and blurrier. He’s so light headed now and the light is starting to dim. It’s cold, frigid, freezing: 0K. 

\- PAGE BREAK: don’t read past here if you don’t like necro!

He can see that Morty is fading fast, already he knows he should have been easier on him for his first training.

Morty could have tried harder, but he could have, too. 

He’s drunk though, claims he can’t help himself. He’ll fix all his own problems tomorrow, when he’s better. He always (mostly) can. 

He slaps Morty’s face through the bag over his head a few times and watches his non response.

“O-oh, shii _ i-urp- _ iit”

He pulls back from dissociating to realize what he’s doing is real. He groans at the mistake as if it’s not entirely his own fault, wearily and drunkenly grabs him by the shoulders and shakes.

“C-come on, Mo- _ uurp _ -rty we gotta, gotta get you fixed up”.

He’s an idiot for talking like he can still hear him, like he’s still conscious, doing it more for his own sake than Morty’s. His body has gone limp in most places now, the weight of his arms pulling against the support of the cuffs. It’s a drastic juxtaposition against the tight, eerie line of his neck stretched sideways as the weight of his head rests on it. It makes Rick feel achey just looking at him, reminds him of how many nights he’s fallen asleep like that and woken up sore the next day. 

But he also looks at Morty’s pale, taut neck, how beautiful it looks even in the dim glow of the stupid incandescent lamp he’d set up in the bunker. He thinks about fucking him, and licks at some of the blood on his knife just to feel worse about himself, self loathing peaking at the consequences of his actions. It’s like there are two parts of him, the genius and the idiot, and one part always seems to be cleaning up after one of their messes. He wonders which side of himself to blame this on, but knows that all the compartmentalizing in the world can’t change what he’s done. He leans in to get a closer look 

He lets his fingers skim over the perk pinkish nipples poking out from beneath the trail of blood and bile on his chest. He moves to nibble on the left one, further away from the mess. He squeezes it between his teeth just to hear it squeak.

There are some sensations he can’t quite recreate in a lab and it drives him up a wall when he thinks about them, always on the hunt for more control, constantly on the fence about being better than god or proving he’s the real deal himself. He wants to put a hole inside of Morty, one that will last, put pieces of metal in his bones. Hell, He already  _ has _ but it’s nowhere near  _ enough: _ he wants to own him inside and out, wants metal you can see to show the world who the boy belongs to. 

But he can’t do anything that leaves a mark, and if he does he fixes it right away.

He kisses all the little bumps and scratches Morty gets on his body from their time together, the ones that have healed the best they could, they healed good enough, they healed at all. They’re the closest thing he has to what he wants, yearns for more but is learning to settle.

He licks at the long, jagged cut in Morty’s side. He’ll have to really do something about this soon, really he’s already lost a dangerous amount of blood.

Instead of doing what he should, he continues to kiss his way down to the v where his pubic hair rests, wiry and pubescent, stinking of his boyish scent still. 

He toys with the hem of his boxers and looks up at Morty’s still bagged face with heavy hooded eyes, waiting for an affirmation he’ll never get. No news is good news, no? 

He pulls down the fabric and starts to stroke his cock, smooths his hand over it in his grip. It’s the way he knows Morty jerks himself off when he watches his softcore stuff with voluptuous redheads and curvaceous blondes. He hates himself but he wouldn’t trade who he was for the world, couldn’t let anyone else bear the burden of his brain, but sometimes he wonders if they’d still be together if he looked like that instead, wonders if Morty would be happier. He doubts it. 

He continues to rub Morty to no avail, taking his flaccid member in his mouth, slathering it with his own alcohol tinged drool, mouthing at youthful elastic skin. He can tell he’s already lost so much blood, too much, his cock isn’t getting hard. Even so, he’s surprised that Morty’s still not reacting even with mouth service: what kind of impotent teenage boy doesn’t get it up for that? And then it dawns on him.

“Oh _ -urrp- _ oh, fuck”

He’s already dead. 

He sighs, a sound teeming with self pity. 

He works his hand underneath the back of Morty’s underwear, massaging his ass in his hand. He’s still warm. He pushes his fingers into his hole, sticks his middle finger two knuckles in: Morty doesn’t tense at all. He starts pumping his finger in and stretching it and hoping to have it soften and it does so easily. 

And he thinks about fucking him, about how sometimes he thinks Morty’s his greatest invention of all, a genetic miracle that took decades in the making. But there are too many things left to fate, too many variables he had no  _ control _ over and yet he  _ still _ made out with the best of it. 

All this fingering and sucking and fondling and pity have made him hard, even beyond the scotch from O’Zorgnax’s that oft plagued him with whiskey dick. This is a special occasion, he supposes, it isn’t every day your grandson dies. 

He looks up at Morty's face, still covered by the bag. He can make out just the tips of his chin, can’t see his eyes. He looks back down at his hands, ring and middle fingers plunged deep in his hole. 

And he thinks about fucking him and this time he actually concedes to do it. 

  
  


He undoes Morty from the bondage on the chair, running through how he himself would have escaped, pointing out all of Morty’s mistakes, talking like he can still hear him, like he’s not already dead. 

“... and you could’ve taken this  _ -urrrp- _ from here--” He takes off Morty’s sock, one made out of a soft titanium alloy he’d made, one of the little things he’d made to keep Morty safer, keep him clothed in his wool.

He uses the sock to cut the ties holding his feet to the chair. He’d left the cuffs purposely loose to let him grab it with his hands and saw it off. Then he’d sawed the chain to the cuffs, leaving his hands free but still in their shackles. 

Pulls the body up out of the chair and lets it fall to the floor in the bunker with a dull thud. It's carpeted here, he’ll be fine for now. Not like he can feel it anyway. 

He follows suit and gets down to his knees and then yanks his boxers down proper, spreading Morty’s legs apart. He still hasn’t looked at his face. 

He heaves his pelvis up to his knees, pops the button to his own pants. He spits on his fingers to slick himself up but he figures he doesn’t  _ really  _ need to. 

He pulls apart Morty’s ass cheeks and sticks himself in, a frictional endeavor. It burns a bit, probably less than it would have if he was sober, he’ll be able to tell from the chafing tomorrow.

He looks at the little knicks in Morty's back from where he’d stabbed  _ too _ deep, all the way to the other side and traces patterns into his skin with the blood. He turns morty slowly over to his front, assessing the damage he’d done to his body, everything he’d have to fix. He’d really need to fix this soon. 

When he’s on his front again he looks at the deepest of the wounds right around his kidney. He can see the layers of skin like it’s some sort of science textbook diagram, disgusting and beautiful at the same time. He sticks his fingers into the cut and spreads it apart, making a home for his fingers inside Morty’s entrails. He’s surprised the kid has anymore room left in him for Rick.

He takes the bag off Morty’s face, looks at the sticky line of salt down Morty’s cheek where his tears once ran. His eyes are open still and glassy and his face hangs in a permanent grimace, fear carved in stone before he’ll be Frankenstein’d back to life. He holds Morty’s limp hand in his bloodied one and brings it to his own face, nuzzling into it as he comes. There’s a reason the French call it _ la petite mort _ , a phrase that’s eerily fitting now. He pulls out, and watches the come ooze our easily with no muscles contracting to hold it in. It’s pinkish in some spots, definitely blood: just another thing to fix before the morning. It’s a dissatisfying, drunken orgasm but he’s finished now, time to get back to business. He’ll fix this Morty up, repair any of the brain damage, clean up any evidence. He always (mostly) does. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading and to everyone who voted in my poll! If you liked this please feel free to read everything else in my series “rick and morty don’t have sex (until they do)”! As always likes and kudos are super appreciated and comments are super DUPER appreciated! Let me know what kind of fics you’re looking to read, I’m always interested in what my audience wants! Anyway follow me on twitter @freder1ckfry


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